


Dead Letter Office

by Huitzil



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Continuity, F/M, Fluff, Gift Fic, L Was Not The First L, Stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huitzil/pseuds/Huitzil
Summary: The weight of the name of L is more than some people can bear. It's more than anyone should bear. That's why B is sure he will bear it for A. It's the least she deserves.
Relationships: A/Beyond Birthday
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Dead Letter Office

**Author's Note:**

  * For [puropoly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puropoly/gifts).



> "I hate L. I think I've hated it for a while."

November of 2002 is a terrible month.

“Master B. You and Mistress A are familiar.” Watari escorts Abbie into the TV room, he practically pushes her, not because she’s unwilling but because she’s so frail. “I’ve instructed the other candidates not to disturb you. Now if you will excuse me, I must see master Ruvie about your retirement. Please, take your time.”

Abbie was never big. B would always walk with her umbrella on rainy days because he said if she held it, she’d be blown away, But now, she’s miniscule. Short, thin, thin like her wrists are so narrow B could wrap a finger around them with a knuckle to spare, thin like paint being worn off and there is almost nothing of the image left. She’s so small here, he can’t help but loom over her, and Lord knows he’s been trying to cut back on the looming. 

Abbie is so tired, too. Her eyes can barely stay open. Once Watari closes the door, B doesn’t even think, he picks her up like she’s his bride to carry back to the couch. She is so light. She has been eroded, worn down in a horrific way by the name of L, and every aspect of her being has been crushed and compacted by the weight of the world’s crimes. There is only one thing B can think to say, presented with such a tragedy.

“Abbie, I’m surprised Watari let you out of the house without rocks in your shoes.” He grins. “If I tried to drop you you’d just float to the ceiling.”

Abbie looks up at him, cradled in his gorilla arms, her eyes so sunken and haunted. She takes a deep breath. And then with the speed of a viper, her hand strikes out to flick him right in the ear.

“Ow!” 

“Yeah, B, I missed you too,” Abbie says. B has to set her down on the couch, because he needs a hand free to rub his ear. The TV is on, but nothing is on TV. “You’re looking good.”

“Yeah, the existential dread keeps my muscles firm,” he says to wave off the compliment. “You look like hell warmed over.”

“I’m… I’m so fucking tired…” she moans. Leans her head back and covers it with that little lace doily Watari always insists hang on the back of every couch. “I just…”

She stops there. So does B. Nothing needs to be said that isn’t visible on her face. He just lays his hand over hers, completely eclipses her slender fingers with his giant bear paws. Cover her, just be there when she decides she needs him.

About a minute.

“I’m… I’m sorry, B,” Abbie finally says. “About this. About everything.”

“Don’t apologize. As far as I’m concerned my pants got what was coming to them. You only served out fashion justice.” 

She cracks an eye open to peek at him and tried not to laugh, because she’s serious, because it would hurt to laugh. “You know what I mean. I’m sorry I couldn’t hack it. I know how bad you wanted to be L. You had to be crushed when I was picked. And then… this. I just quit.” She starts to slump over, leaning into his side for support, warmth.

“Oh, L?” He flutters his hand dismissively. “I haven’t even thought of that since you left. I’ve got a lot of projects of my own, you know. Doing some concept work.”

“The band?”

“We broke apart over creative differences,” he says. “I wanted to call us ‘Beyond the Birthday Experience’ and O wanted to call us ‘Overt Overdrive Overture’. There are some things I won’t stand for.”

Abbie snickers. Puts her hand into his lap. “I can never tell when you’re joking and when you’re serious.”

He snickers right back. “That makes two of us.” He uncrosses his legs so Abbie can lay her head in his lap.

“The greatest mystery L could never solve,” Abbie says, holding her hands up like she was reading a marquee title. “The Mystery Of Just What Is Up With B?”

“I know, right? Who eats jam right out of the jar?” He tsk-tsks. “This B sounds like a very bizarre character. Very dangerous. And incredibly handsome.”

“Dashingly so,” Abbie says. Her eyes are half lidded, she was always exhausted but here she is safe to lay her head down and rest. B gently strokes her hair with his fingers.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers.

“Hi, I’m Abbie, apparently we’ve never met,” she says without moving her head, the warm heaviness of sleep overtaking her snark.

“Okay, don’t worry about this,” he amends. “You take as much of a nap as you need, then we’ll talk to Roger about what to do next.” His hands gently tease the hair off from her ear, and he’s talking to himself more than anything. “You can still be L. I’ll just handle the bullshit parts for you. That’s all. You relax on a beach and I’ll check in twice a month for the hard stuff.” Abbie makes a happy little noise as she burrows deeper into his lap. 

Then B notices movement. Someone has cracked the door. That little moon-faced punk, the one who goes by “T” because nobody but B can see his real name is //LESLIE TAYLOR LAWLIET//, the guy who looked like if you took B and ran him through a wringer to extract all his muscle, charisma, and healthy sleep schedule. Guy is carrying a little strawberry shortcake as he peeks in the open door, and when B’s eyes meet his, he swallows it. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. The smug little expression, the little snort of air from his nose, they say everything. Little snot thinks he’s looking at a failure. Thinks he could do better.

“…I’m gonna stuff that punk into a mailbox,” B mutters.

“Don’t stuff people into mailboxes,” Abbie mutters, half-conscious. “Use a trash can. Bigger.”

“Mmm, fine, I guess,” and he jokingly sounds disappointed but he isn’t. Abbie’s here, and she looks like shit, but at least she’s done, and she’s still alive. Maybe she’s averted death by overstress and her time won’t be coming up soon. And B is going to step into her shoes as the World’s Greatest Detective, he’ll stand between her and the slings and arrows of outrageous bullshit, so she could help the world like he never could.

It’s a terrible month, but maybe it won’t last forever.

**Author's Note:**

> "You didn't find Ryuzaki. L isn't a garage band that got discovered. L is a studio band you put together."


End file.
